


From The Stars We Come, To The Stars We Go

by flightyhead



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hiatus fic, I like to think of this as my personal coping mechanism, Multi, Pining, Possibly Accidental Pregnancy, Post-Season/Series 04, Suicidal Thoughts, Survival Shenanigans, Talking to Radios Because They Can Do That Really Well, we'll see how that goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-04 21:42:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10999572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightyhead/pseuds/flightyhead
Summary: The Delinquents have made it to The Ark, but because it's The 100, there are many problems waiting for them. Raven fixes things, Monty plants food, Murphy cooks, and Bellamy is really busy with not smashing important technology. Echo and Emori teach them Trigedasleng when they don't stare at the stars all night. You might say they're doing okay, save for the fact that they might be not alone in space.Meanwhile on Earth, Clarke does her best to fix herself and scrambles to keep Becca's lab going. She's no Raven, but she manages. Yes, she talks to Bellamy over the radio all the time, plus her dead friends and loved ones.  Yes, there's no food. But surviving has just become one of the many tasks she's used to solving by now. The next five years seem perfectly mapped out ... save for the fact that Clarke, too, might not be alone on the ground.*********This takes place between season 4 and season 5, contains some speculation for season 5, and also major spoilers. Duh.*********Updates on Wednesdays (usually)





	1. Assessing Damage

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what to say except that I was excited and bummed by the finale at the same time, and that I decided on writing a monster fic during hiatus so I can keep my Bellarke and general fandom feels in check. So, here it is. A mostly canon fic. Bummer.  
> Please keep in mind that English is not my first language, so please don't be a dick about comma rules - at the moment, I'm looking for a beta reader who can compensate for that and also doesn't terribly mind my usual procrastional problems. I'm willing to trade my own beta abilities, which aren't bad^^  
> I do my very best to describe medical topics, survival skills, and plot specifics correctly, but humans make mistakes, so you're welcome to point them out!

TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains mentions of suicidal thoughts.

* * *

  **DAY ONE**

 

 

_**"Exposure to large amounts of radiation over a short period of time can cause Acute Radiation Syndrome (ARS). If you have symptoms of ARS (skin burns, nausea, or vomiting) seek medical attention as soon as it is safe to leave your building or shelter. If you were exposed to a small amount of radiation, you will not see any health effects right away."** _

 

***

 

During the past six months or so, Clarke’s sleeping conditions haven’t always been ideal. She has slept on hard ground, on thin and lumpy mattresses, and sometimes even on a chair, sprawled across her desk at night. At least, those were the places where she actively decided to close her eyes, where she thought she could get some rest from reality blaring at her and actually get away with it. Maybe the highlight of those decisions was the time when she slept in Lexa’s fur-layered bed; the Heda’s steely arms protecting her from her frequent nightmares, her soft skin providing warmth and intimacy, her gazillion candles emitting a welcoming glow. She truly felt safe back then, before it shattered all to pieces. Or the time she slept next to the log fire before they went to war against Mount Weather, surrounded by the scent of fir trees and soil, right next to Bellamy. There’s a certain pattern, if you think about it: All it takes to let Clarke sleep in peace is a person beside her that she loves. And staying warm.

 

Right now, Clarke only lacks one of these two things, and it’s not about cold feet. She feels hot.

  
She burns, actually.

  
Actually, her skin is on fire.

  
The excruciating pain pulls her from the lethargic grey of unconsciousness back into reality, where her radiation suit scrubs against her irradiated skin and it feels as if someone was dragging her through the gravel of a riverbed (she’s got some experience with that by now). A moan wrangles free from her sore throat, the walls throwing its echoes right back at her. Clarke opens her eyes. Her vision is blurry, but it gradually adjusts and readjusts until she can make out the first shapes, blurry around the edges. Her busted helmet is lying several feet away, tiny shards reflecting the cool neon light that still flickers above. Weird, that the death wave didn’t kill it just the way it killed everything else. ALIE’s technology hasn’t lost its surprise yet, apparently.

  
Then her sense of smell returns, a sharp and acid stench stinging in her nostrils. A quick glance down proves her initial thought to be right – she’s lying in a puddle of her own vomit of bile and black blood, facedown. Ah, yes, she puked before she passed out. She barfed all over the place. The chances of insulting anybody by doing that were relatively low, to be quite fair.

  
Times passes. Clarke’s other senses reappear. Her kneecaps are hurting, maybe she hit the ground with them first. So did her right cheekbone, probably. It feels bruised, but she can open her mouth, so there aren’t any compressed nerves or muscles, which means the bone is thankfully not fractured. Her head is throbbing, but she can’t tell whether that’s because of the impact or because of the radiation or because of the stress of the last few hours. Her right arm is close to her face, slightly curved around her forehead almost in a peaceful manner, while her left wrist is painfully wedged between her left hipbone and the ground. Slowly, Clarke rolls herself to the right. Her back collides with the panel table almost in time with her pained scream. The slight movement demonstrates that something’s not right in her hand. She’ll have to examine that later.

  
Or does she?

  
As far as Clarke knows, it can only be a matter of time before she never has to worry about any injuries anymore. Yeah, she succeeded in closing the lab door, and Raven said that the lab was radiation-proof. But beyond that? Where’s she supposed to get food, to even get clean water that is going to last for five years? The outside is obviously getting destroyed right now. And even if there was anything salvageable out there, she can’t leave the building, because she didn’t become a Nightblood. The radiation would kill her before she even left the driveway.

  
It was all for nothing. Clarke has fled into her own tomb made of glass and steel, made of tech she can make little sense of, until she finally dies of thirst or hunger (most likely of thirst before that … it might just take a week, but considering her burns, her metabolism is going to be much faster). She should’ve just awaited death on the top of that satellite tower while she was still up there. At least, the view had been spectacular.

  
Earth is really beautiful, even if it’s about to kill you.

  
Now that the immensely hurtful but swift death by radiation is delayed, Clarke starts to consider her options. She pulls herself up into a semi-sitting, semi-leaning position, sheltering her injured hand in her blood-covered lap. The back of her hand is covered in angry, deep-red blisters. A few hours ago, that solid surface behind her was humming with life and hope for survival. It’s silent now.

  
The whole lab is silent, Clarke notices, if she just blocks out her own rugged breaths, the soft shifting of her suit fabric. The striplights on the ceiling are flickering off and on, filling the room with the familiar buzz of electricity, but it’s bound to go out sometime soon. The screens went out a long time ago, when they watched Polis getting burned to the ground. That’s supposed to be her short future, being alone with the sound of her own existing until she doesn’t anymore. Who would’ve thought she’d ever miss Murphy’s everlasting sarcastic commentary, the constant creaking of Raven’s leg brace, even Echo’s babbling about Azgeda and honor? Those sounds are ripped away from her now. For the first time after several months of being busy trying to save the world, she’s alone now, and she fucking hates it.

  
Ironically, it’s being alone with herself that Clarke has craved several times before. After Mount Weather, she needed that time to assess the damage her actions had caused to her soul. Those three months allowed her to cry in her sleep without the danger of anybody seeing her break down, they allowed her to stay away from the pain she had caused her friends, and they allowed her to avoid facing Bellamy. (A decision she regrets today. What would’ve happened if she stayed with him in Arkadia, especially after he had lost Gina? Maybe the both of them could’ve avoided their worst decisions just by accepting their responsibility instead of pushing each other away. But regret is a very mean emotion to feel: It dismisses every rational thought until there’s nothing left except the urge to change the past. And if Clarke knows one thing for sure, it’s that you can’t change the past. She knows. She’s tried so often in her dreams that she’s lost count.)

  
Thinking about Bellamy just entails thinking about his smile and his hand in hers and the things she’s never said to him despite having the opportunity to do it and thinking about their friends and Octavia and her mom whom she never said goodbye to, it basically starts a whole new cycle of regret, and Clarke feels that this isn’t getting her anywhere. The time for wallowing in self-pity is over. She’s had her three months. The only fact that matters is that she gave her friends their best shot at surviving. Her mom, Kane, Octavia, and Miller are all safe within their respective bunker, along with almost 1,200 people. She doesn’t need to worry about them anymore. She’s left with a concept that’s entirely new to her: _What the fuck am I supposed to do now with myself?_

  
So. Away with thinking of others. Put that into a box and put that box right outside into the death zone. She doesn’t want to wait until she dies, so she needs to speed that up, and for that, she needs an acceptable solution. Dehydrating herself is a relatively painless option, but she’s not sure whether she could make it. The lab toilet probably still works. Hell, she’s going to drink her own piss when her survival instincts kick in, and they’ve never let her down. That would draw out her suicide for several weeks then. She doesn’t know whether she wants that, the knowledge that she’s lost everything that lives close to her heart, and having to live with it until she finally manages killing herself.  
Maybe hanging herself would work? Beneath her suit, Clarke is wearing black leggings and a long-sleeved shirt. If she tied them up a bit, she might produce a respectable noose. Put it right over that handrail, and voilà! The downside of that plan: The clothes wouldn’t make for a drop long enough to break her neck. That would only leave a long, tiresome death by strangulation. Thanks, but no thanks.

  
And this trail of thoughts keeps going on and on. By now, Clarke has managed to pull herself up and supports herself with her elbows on the control panel. That way, she can scan the whole lab on her search for ways to kill herself before nature does. She considers throwing herself down the stairs headfirst and stabbing herself with a stray piece of metal and flushing the toilet with her head in it until she finally drowns, but she keeps rejecting all of those ideas until realization finally dawns.  
Because Clarke Griffin is many things. She is a hero, a murderer, a victim, a culprit; she’s a Delinquent, she’s a loyal friend, she’s a doctor, she’s a leader and a liar, she’s a lover and she’s lost loved ones. She just needs to think with her head, because Bellamy acts with his heart for both, and the other way around. She protects her people and has scars to prove it.

  
But if there’s one thing that’s completely out-of-character for Clarke, it’s being suicidal. Clarke Griffin isn’t allowed to kill herself, she’s got people to care for. And even now that those people are far away, she feels a certain indignation to end her life, now that it entirely belongs to her. This is the moment Clarke realizes that she isn’t cut out to leave through the backdoor, just like Jasper and the rest of the DNR group did. Were they cowards? Were they brave? Clarke doesn’t think it’s a question of whether you have enough or not enough guts to do something like that. What she knows is that she still holds the feeble hope that she might live to see the day when the others can leave their exiles. This is what Jasper didn’t have anymore, hope; and right now, Clarke knows that she won’t do anything to help the course of nature, because that would mean giving up that sliver of hope. But on the other hand, she doesn’t want to simply sit and wait.

  
If one option is not to wait until she dies, the other option is to not die.

  
Clarke ceases to think about death and instead, focuses on what she can do best. She examines her wounds and decides that they’re bad, but manageable. Later, she’ll raid the med cabinet for treating her burns. For now, hydrating is her top priority. She heads into the bathroom and drinks a small amount of water from the tap – thankful for the fact that it’s connected to a water tank within the bunker, so she might actually have something to work with -, cleaning her multiple burns with loads of cold water, which pulls colorful curses from her. It’s the first time since the satellite tower she’s heard actual words. A grim smirk pulls at her mouth. Now that she’s decided on fighting, this is going to be the only voice she’ll hear for the next five years. Her angry-red image faces her from a mirror, looking strange and unfamiliar. The doctor side of her tells her in a clinical tone that she’ll probably be as good as new again in approximately three weeks. The Clarke side of her isn’t really comforted by that.

  
She strips from her suit and searches the lab for a splint and some bandages, finding it in the first aid kit near to the stairs. All cleaned up and doctored, she feels less desperate. Of course, that doesn’t erase her most pressing problems. How is she going to maintain the lab/bunker since she’s not an engineer like Monty, or set up any life-sustaining system since she’s no Raven, or produce any new food since she’s no Wizard of Oz? Those are all issues she’ll have to deal with, and soon. Until she’s got a good idea to work with, Clarke is going to do what she can do best, and that is to keep herself going.

  
Clarke snatches up the radio that landed on the floor somehow, but remained wonderfully intact. She begins to wander around, looking at all the technology right at her hands and starts to dive into the rusty knowledge about tech she’s collected throughout her first seventeen years on The Ark. She keeps fiddling with the radio but nothing more, because it’s not likely to reach anyone while hell is raging outside and killing all possible frequencies. That fact doesn’t suppress the urge of wanting to communicate, to reach out and just say, _I decided to give myself a chance._ To keep herself sane, if you put it like that.

  
She presses the button and is only met by an expected silence. “My name is Clarke Griffin, and I’m still alive”, she says in a firm voice, feeling more like her old self. “Calling all survivors. I’m on the Island of Light on the East Coast, and I survived.”


	2. Limbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Thank you so much for the responses I got on the first chapter! For someone who's very sceptical about her work, this means the world to me.  
> I know shit about algae farming, so I added the shit I know about actual farming by reading The Martian. All the actual shit-related stuff in this chapter is based on Mark Watney's expertise while I do some research on seafood.  
> This chapter might undergo some minor edits during the next few days or so, as I've managed to produce this chapter, but I'm stressed and sick and perfectionistic as fuuuck, so I'll go catch some sleep while you point out my unbeta'd plot mistakes ;)

**DAY ONE**

 

_**Psychological, or emotional trauma, is damage or injury to the psyche after living through an extremely frightening or distressing event and may result in challenges in functioning or coping normally after the event.** _

 

***

 

There’s a breeze caressing Bellamy’s face, running its cool finger along his temple. It feels alien. Just for a moment, his confused, oxygen-deprived brain tries to make sense of this; he automatically thinks he’s still on the ground. He’s never going to forget this feeling when he stepped out of the Dropship for the first time, the first strong gust of wind ruffling his stupid guard hair with too much gel in it, freeing it from its greasy prison. He’s always hated that gel, even back when he was a cadet and there was a rule about natural hair or whatever. Oh, and that feeling of his boots sinking finger-deep into actual _dirt_ , God, that was almost too much to bear. That sunlight filtering through the green treetops, warming his skin like any electric heater never could. It danced around on top of Octavia’s chestnut hair, skipping here and there when she turned her head to take it all in as quickly as she possibly could. The marvel in his sister’s eyes. Her laugh. Maybe her laugh was what finally convinced them that they were finally home.

 

_Home._

 

The illusion fades back into memory. Bellamy opens his eyes and blinks, recognizing the first two huddled shapes on the floor as Raven and Murphy. They kind of collapsed in a heap along with Emori, all three dramatically clutching to a single breathing mask. Murphy has been in that weird “helpful guy” mode for quite some time now, and apparently, he’s infected his thieving girlfriend too. Emori even asked them to wait for another minute. Who would’ve guessed he’d be glad to be here with them, of all people?

 

A single groan comes out of Monty’s and Harper’s direction, hoarse and deep. They take shallow breaths, a choked laugh escapes Harper’s throat, and then they’re all laughing, or wheezing, maybe. Murphy’s perfectly straight teeth glint in the dark. It’s a relieved laugh. A plan that could’ve gone so wrong so many times, and they’re all here, alive at least.

 

Well, almost all of them.

 

Bellamy’s fingers start to tremble ever so slightly, so he tries to ignore the violent tumble of his stomach the way he always does: through action. He quietly frees himself from his helmet and suit, registering the incoming air as chilly, but not unbearable. (At least for now.) He makes an attempt to stand up, but his head is still spinning, and his knees slam into the floor. It makes one hell of a noise in that quiet hallway.

 

“What are you doing, Bellamy?”, Monty murmurs groggily. He’s leaned back against the wall, his eyes still closed, but his chest is rising and falling in an even, reassuringly even rhythm again. “Go back to sleep.”

 

“This isn’t a nap, you idiot”, Raven whispers and pats Monty’s leg fondly. “We just almost died.”

 

“What else is new?” Considering that Murphy’s head is mostly buried in Raven’s lap, his voice is surprisingly loud. “I could use a nap now. I’ve had enough of apocalypses and black rain.”

 

A foot appears in Bellamy’s field of vision. Looking up, it belongs to Echo, the only one of them who’s managed to stand up so far. She sways a little and there’s a slight sheen of sweat on her pale forehead, but the steely Azgeda discipline seems to keep her upright. She extends her hand to him. Bellamy pointedly ignores her offer and rises from his knees on his own, surely lacking a certain flair, but hell, at least he seems to be recovering. He shuffles over to Raven and gently pushes the other two from her, eliciting rather friendly adjectives from them. As a thank you, Raven frowns at him.

 

“We need to find that central heater right now, or we’ll freeze to death”, Bellamy says. His voice sounds rough to his ears.

 

Raven rubs her face with one hand. Bellamy gives the tired mechanic some time to think and checks the others for any injuries, but they all seem to be fine, aside from slightly blue-colored lips and fingertips. Emori helps Murphy out of his suit and takes her surroundings in with her brow furrowed. Apparently, she’s not very impressed by the can of metal they’ve propelled her in.

 

“All the control systems are somewhere in section A-4, I guess. I haven’t been there often because I’m no chancellor or anything, but we have nothing but time to find it.” Raven coughs.

 

During the next few minutes, they’re just busy breathing. They shiver after all of them have been stripped from their spacesuits against better reason, but the suits are too bulky for longer walks, and in the huge Go-Sci Ring, A-4 could be anywhere. In silence, Bellamy swings one of the two large bags full of their few belongings over his shoulder, when a scream cuts through the hallway. He whips around to see that Harper has pulled off Monty’s glove … and taken a good deal of his hand with her. It’s heavily burned, and a small amount of blood from his ripped open blisters dribbles on the floor.

 

“Monty!” Bellamy exclaims and strides over to his friend.

 

“I’m fine!”, says Monty through gritted teeth.

 

“He’s not _fine_ ”, Murphy says. “He pulled them off when we couldn’t get out the oxygen scrubber with our gloves still on.”

 

“You’re such an idiot”, Harper breathes out and blows a featherlight kiss onto the back of Monty’s injured hand.

 

“He really is. The only botanist on the whole Ark, and he cripples his hands willingly? Really good plan.” “Hey!” Echo glowers at Raven. Raven shrugs, partly defensive, partly apologetic.

 

“Enough of this!” His friends turn around, annoyance showing on their faces. “We didn’t lose our friends just so we can rip each other apart.” Bellamy has to swallow the lump that has fully materialized in his throat by now. No, he can’t deal with himself right now. Get back to business. “Monty, we should definitely take a look at this. Let’s look for the med bay as well, there should be some disinfectant or something to patch you up with.” He shifts their bags awkwardly around and does a vague gesture down the hallway. “After you, Raven.”

 

They make their way through the Go-Sci Ring mostly in silence, occasionally interrupted by a stumbling leg, a dismissive comment either coming from Emori or Echo about the state of the vintage space station, or Raven murmuring around while she tries to orient herself.

 

As a former Ark Guard Cadet, Bellamy recognizes some of the dim hallways. He used to patrol here, accompanied by a higher-ranked guard because they wouldn’t leave the political center of The Ark to a fresh face from Factory; only to judge him, and leave the dreadful night shifts to him while the sergeants had a good sleep. But his memory is not as sharp anymore, his eyes clouded by several years that have gone by since he was so young and hopeful he could really make it, escape the dull life on Factory Station, and draw attention away from the illegal person that was hiding under his apartment’s floor. Man, was he wrong. Maybe it was him becoming a cadet in the first place that gave him the arrogance to chaperone his sister to the dance, to really think he could tempt fate. A case of _hubris_ , his mother would say. She wasn’t completely free of it, either.

 

It’s a piece of cake for Bellamy Blake to go down that road, so he doesn’t. It’s easier to ignore pangs of guilt over one thing when the pangs of guilt over another, completely different thing are much, much stronger and are so fresh. The faces of Octavia and his mother fade into the background, the sickness to his stomach continues to grow into a dark, looming thing that threatens to swallow the meager self-control he still has left, so Bellamy bites hard down on it and takes step after step after step.

 

At one point, he taps Raven’s shoulder. She turns around, her eyes questioning him. “I think it must be around here”, Bellamy says quietly and scans his surroundings. Yes, it must be around here. He remembers this hallway, of all things; nearby, over there should be the break room for the guards, and a consultation room for citizens who had requests for a more food rations or warm water. Around that corner, they arrested a thirteen-year-old who assaulted a Council member for floating his older brother.

 

Raven looks around and nods, quietly appreciative of his skills. “Yeah, this is A-6. Come on, guys, it’s not far.”

 

The Key Command and Operations section is dark as night until Raven turns on the power on some computers, and shortly, they bathe their faces in their reassuring digital light. Raven lets out some delighted commentary about the tech still being in excellent condition. Echo wanders off to a control panel and watches a glowing hologram materializing out of thin air, a wary expression on her face.

 

“I take back what I said about our tech still being in excellent condition”, Raven says in a slightly frustrated voice.

 

“What’s the problem?”, Bellamy asks and watches her finger running over the whirling charts on her current control panel. He’s got no idea what that is. Why should he? He’s never needed to know that stuff, and when it came down to that in Mount Weather, he always had engineers by his side who could make sense of code and whatnot.

 

“Our food.” Monty has joined Raven and looks down at the data, frowning. “Remember how we wanted to use the algae farm for that?”

 

“Yeah, eating fungus for five years”, Murphy pipes in. “And drinking each other’s piss. I signed up for that part.”

 

“That you can still have”, says Monty. “The filter system needs a check-through, but it looks fine. Especially for only seven people instead of hundreds. But a lot of algae died when an intern accidentally flushed most of the most promising colonies last year and got floated for it, nobody produced new ones when the population problem came up and instead focused on already present food sources, and Jaha ate the rest of it. In short, we have some algae to work with, but it won’t grow fast enough to provide for seven people before we starve.”

 

“Great news. What about the backup plan?” Harper is scanning the monitors.

 

“We don’t have a backup plan”, Emori hisses. “That was the plan, right? Go up to space, eat seafood, not dying.”

 

“I’m literally talking about the _Backup Plan_ ”, Harper slowly answers. She meets their eyes and speaks quickly, as if they wouldn’t listen if she didn’t get it out as fast as possible. “I’ve left Hydra Station two years ago, but when I was still working there, people still used to put food on one side. We didn’t weigh all the fish we caught. Instead, we kept a small amount, dried them, and put them into a barrel. As far as I know, other stations did that too. Most of the times, we used the food for trade, when the rations were especially low for example. Or when we ran low on tools, but the Council wouldn’t raise the quota for the Factory Station. The black market was our backup plan for when the Council let us down. It was our codeword for when we had to do our jobs wrong on purpose.”

 

“Also a better euphemism for thievery.” Murphy lets out a long whistle.

 

“And how does that help us here on Go-Sci?” Raven still looks skeptical. Bellamy can’t hold it against her; they’re all so used to problems instead of solutions by now. But he’s heard of the black market of course, although he didn’t listen on purpose when it came up in his station. As the guard boy, he didn’t want to know much more about illegal activities right under his nose.

 

“Because we had a high-ranking buyer on Go-Sci. Sometimes he’d make a deal with us, trading favors that helped getting our petitions through, but he didn’t come by often. He was much more interested in what Farm Station had to offer … some fruit here and there, a pineapple for his daughter’s birthday …”

 

“… Weed …”

 

“Yeah, that sounds familiar”, Monty says, obviously amused.

 

“So the point is”, Bellamy summarizes, “that some goods from Farm Station might be here. On Go-Sci.”

 

Harper points at him. “Exactly!”

 

Raven draws up a large sheet of the Council system, long-dead faces staring right back at them. Bellamy only recognizes Kane, Abby, and Jaha, but Harper points at an elderly man with snow-white, shaggy hair. “That’s him.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah, I’m sure. I contacted him for the last delivery before I went to Sky Box.”

 

Quickly, Raven and Monty have figured out where that guy’s office is located on the Ring. After a check on the other running systems, Raven activates the heating system and declares their situation to be otherwise fine (specifically, that they’ve got warmth and air, which is really the least the old Ark could’ve done for some of its former residents); now they’re headed to the buyer’s office. Echo gets lost on the way, exploring the station on her own; nobody bothers to hold her back. It’s not like there’s any danger waiting for them up here, now that they’re safely inside.

 

Council members would call that office a rathole probably; its sidetables are stacked high with folders, the wall covered in visibly fixed screens, and the floor littered with crap. To people like Bellamy, it doesn’t look that bad though – especially considering that unlike him, this guy didn’t have to live with a mother and a sister under his floor. His actual flat must have been somewhere on Alpha Station, which has been turned into Arkadia and is now silently burnt to the ground, even if Praimfaya didn’t do its best to erase it completely. But even if the flat was still up here, it’s unlikely that a Council member stored his illegal buyings right under his partner’s and kid’s nose. They start looking through the boxes filled with pencils and paperwork until Emori’s muffled “Ha!” of triumph comes from under the table. She dives up, her hair ruffled from her fervent search, but she looks very smug with herself. In her hands is a large box covered by a thin plastic blanket. Bellamy pulls it up.

 

The buyer has hidden actual _potatoes_ at his feet, that goddamn genius.

 

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t think we can live out of that box for five years”, says still-sceptical-Raven.

 

Emori scoffs at her. “You kidding? These are at least thirty potatoes! A shitload!”

 

“So?”

 

“So we can cut them up”, Monty counters and points at the potatoes’ eyes. We just need one or two on each piece. We cut them up, dig them into soil, let them sprout while trimming them and keeping them warm, and multiply our harvest. We’ve got protein bars, vitamins … all we need are calories. Our conditions are perfect up here, no parasites we have to take care of, no storms, no summer heat. They’ll grow perfectly. And as soon as we’ve produced enough algae, along with the potatoes, we have good chances at surviving.”

 

“What about soil?”

 

“We’ve got a lot of fabricated soil over at the algae station, I checked. And smart farmer that I am, I’ve brought some from Earth, too.” Monty nods at one of the bags Bellamy is still carrying around with him, that stubborn idiot. As if anyone would _steal_ it from him now.

 

“That can’t be enough to feed seven people.”

 

“No, it’s not. Which is why we’re going to fabricate more. And infect it.”

 

“What do you mean, infect it?”

 

For the first time, Monty looks kind of … _flustered._

 

“He means that piss isn’t going the only thing we’ll use for feeding ourselves.” Harper pinches her nose. “We take some of the soil from algae station or the one we brought, depending on how much bacteria one of them contains, mix it with crap, and sprinkle the richer kind of soil on top. The bacteria in human feces infect the soil and fertilizes it. All we have to be careful about is that considering we’ve more than one person, the pathogens in our crap might be risky to our health. And that we can’t do that for more than ten years, but we won’t have to stay up here for that long.”

 

"We didn't sign up for that", sighs Murphy.

 

“We’ll keep each other healthy as soon as that’s an actual problem”, Bellamy answers. He looks down at Monty’s hands, which looks even ghastlier under the office’s fluorescent lights. “Let’s look for the med station. We might find some breathing masks for us and bandages for Monty. The medical supply might become just as important to us than the whole potatoes issue.”

 

“Good plan. Give me those bags while you’re at it, I’ll set up dinner in the control room with the others until we find some better quarters. Don’t come late, or the awesome tube food is going to get cold.” Bellamy hands the bags to Raven as requested and then leaves the office with Monty in tow, who thankfully doesn’t try to understate his injury. Monty has always been one of the smart ones. He knows that his hands might be the deal breaker for all of them, and after all, he’s fairly interested in keeping them.

 

The two find the Ark Medical Station after some searching, supported by the bright green signs showing the way. Bellamy turns on the light. Rows and rows of beds line a large hall, the doctor’s room and storage closets adjacent to it. Sometimes he forgets how big The Ark has been, bustling with life. Future patients, as some doctors might have looked at them. There are more than enough beds in here, but Bellamy doubts that any of them is going to sleep here. It’s too big of a station, and it still sounds like death.

 

Monty searches some closets and guts them, dropping the innards into a large tub. Bellamy recognizes disinfectant, gloves, scissors, different kinds of vitamins; magnesium, zine, even prenatal ones … After they’ve searched the station for the medicine they might need soon, he can finally sit Monty down to help him clean his wounds as good as he can. Monty is a tough boy, but he still cries out in sharp pain when the alcohol touches his open flesh.

 

“I don’t know what else to do for now”, Bellamy says, apologetically.

 

Monty shakes his head and smiles at him, his lips pursed in pain, but genuinely. “We’ll consult with the others, but I think I’ll be fine. I just wish we had someone with us who knew more than we did.”

 

A different shade of pain flits over his face as he registers what he just said.

 

“Yeah”, says Bellamy right in the middle of the pressing silence between them. “Me too.”

 

“Bellamy, that’s not what I-“

 

But Bellamy is already gone, heading towards the control room, the echoes of his steps splashing on the walls and ebbing down behind him. This is hunger at the pit of his stomach, isn’t it? It must be. It feels like acid, violent even. When was the last time he’s eaten something? Was it in the Polaris bunker? He doesn’t know anymore, he doesn’t remember—

 

And now he’s completely lost.

 

Yep, he’s lost his way on a ship he’s supposed to know like the back of his hand.

 

This hallway looks similar to the one they’ve passed through, but not quite. He’s still nearby med station, he can see the doctors’ names beside their doors … And there’s something catching his eye, but he doesn’t quite know yet what it means. Squinting, he steps closer to the door on his right.

 

There’s room for two names on the etiquettes next to it, but only one is labeled.

 

RESIDENT: DR ABBY GRIFFIN

CO-RESIDENT: _____________

 

In a daze, Bellamy turns the doorknob. His hand is shaking. Who knows why the door is unlocked, but it’s unlocked, and he can push it open and _see._

 

This is not an office like the buyer guy’s one. On The Ark, doctors had violent shifts sometimes, shifts when they wouldn’t even be able to make their way over to Alpha Station where they usually lived. As a result, several doctors set up a temporary place near med station where they could catch some sleep and be near their job at the same time, without having to miss anything. Doctor Abby Griffin was one of those insane people. She was famous for two things, her stubbornness and her dedication to her work. This has never changed.

 

What has changed that once upon a time, Abby hasn’t lived her alone. There was a time when the second label bore a name, too; when a fellow doctor lived with her. Because she shared her mother’s stubbornness. Because she wanted to be near her even when they almost broke down from exhaustion.

 

Her face is everywhere. Not literally, as even Abby wasn’t allowed to decorate her quarters with dozens of photograph screens just to display her family members’ faces for everyone and the world to see; but she’s there, with her arms thrown around a much younger, much happier looking Abby. Her blonde hair is clean and silky, her smile carefree. She must’ve been twelve or so when they took the photo, her face is so young and soft. And she wears braces, good God.

 

There she is, too. She looks even younger in the drawing of her father with her smile and her eyes, a good-looking man with sparse scruff on his cheeks. While he takes up most of the picture, she’s drawn herself in the reflection of a mirror behind her dad, sticking out her tongue. Her legs don’t even reach the ground under the chair she’s set up drawing camp on.

 

And there, behind an impressive bookshelf he doesn’t even bother looking at, there’s her door. It stands slightly open, as if Abby had peeked into her daughter’s old world right before she went to the ground. He can’t help himself, the buzzing in his stomach gets stronger and stronger.

 

Her bunk is void of life, just a bare mattress and some folded sheets on top of it. It seems senseless. Why would you set out a fresh pile of laundry even if you knew that your daughter was in prison? Maybe Abby still had some hope left. Hope that Clarke would return some day, possibly pardoned for her crimes, and continue her life with her mother as before. As if nothing ever changed.

 

But everything has changed.

 

Clarke Griffin has covered her walls with sharpie drawings. A sketched window where there is none shows a portrait of the universe with stars exploding that are nowhere near their ship. A fish’s tail curls around the fictional window’s corner, playfully twisting its glinting body. A tree shelters her desk covered in med books and colorful post-its, its leaves weirdly furry, but close to reality now that he’s seen it. A deer is looking right at him, almost hiding completely within the shrubbery, only its vibrant eyes beaming at him.

 

And there, an actual picture of her and Wells. They sit huddled together in the library, apparently studying for school, but Wells Jaha is laughing out loud at something that his best friend just said to him. The corners of her mouth are playfully turned upwards, her laugh lines captured for eternity in the moment before she was caught and her face changed, alive.

 

In here, Clarke is alive. And dead at the same time, because that room only reminds Bellamy of what was, and what isn’t.

 

The feeling inside him spreads its wings and soars, piercing his ribcage with its wingtips. He collapses on the ground and rolls on his back, staring at yet another abundance of stars she must’ve drawn standing on her tiptoes. This is too much. This is too damn much.

 

Away from the others, his people whom he has to stay strong for, Bellamy finally starts to cry. The guttural sounds coming from deep inside him sound oddly familiar to him. He has thought once before that he’s lost everything when Echo brought the message about Octavia being dead; it felt like something had been ripped from him and left him to die.

 

Now his best friend is dead. She’s dead, she’s died for them. For him. He needs to live with it, because that was her left gift from her to him.

 

His tears stream down his neck. Her laugh rings out loud and true in his memory.

 

_I’ve left you behind._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Sky Box headcanon about Bellamy finding Clarke's drawings was just too good to be left out, right? Since I want to keep my story as close to canon as possible and the Sky Box isn't on The Ark Ring anymore, I went with this alternative. Because I'm all for the Angst.  
> Leave me some kudos if you feel like it and want to make a writer feel validated!
> 
> Symptoms, Signs & Effects of Emotional Trauma:  
> http://www.cascadebh.com/behavioral/trauma/signs-symptoms-effects


	3. Caged Animals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back. Let's sit down for a little chat before we start, shall we?  
> So this fic was intended to be Bellarke-centric, but guys, I failed. I failed big time. Last week, I wrote down all the things I have in store for this story: the setups, inevitable catastrophies, a whole lot of war and eyefucking ... Yeah, I've actually got a goddamn PLOT for you. And just as I've stated in the summary, I want to tell you what went down in those six years Bellamy and Clarke were separated. And I'm going to. Which means that they ARE going to reunite, but ... let's just say it'll take us a couple of chapters. We'll get there, but first, there are their individual stories.  
> You still with me? Good.  
> Which is why this chapter tackles the third subplot of three in total: the Grounders 2.0 (Clarke), the Sky People 2.0 (Space Squad), and the Mountain Men 2.0. Plot ensues. Enjoy!

** DAY 27 **

 

**_Fool, prate not to me about covenants. There can be no covenants between men and lions, wolves and lambs can never be of one mind, but hate each other out and through. Therefore can be no understanding between you and me, nor may there be any covenants between us, till one or other shall fall._ **

**_– Homer, The Iliad_ **

***

 

“A-are you okay?”

 

The voice is a thin echo in her ears. Octavia is pulled from a blissfully oblivious dream; just moments before, she has been out on Helios’s back, riding along a glistening river that meandered through a broad valley, lined with dark fir trees; with sunlight kissing her cheeks and feeling the thrill of speed and victory over her slain enemies. The dream evaporates and gives way to a cold, claustrophobic kitchen. Light pours from the hallway into the doorless common kitchen unit on level 3. A vent that has survived more than a century of rust and underground humidity blares on productively.

 

The girl, not older than twelve and holding a cheap-looking plastic jug, stares down at her. This realization is accompanied by a stabbing pain spreading from her tailbone all over her back – yes, she has fallen asleep on the kitchen floor again. Without even sitting down on the chair right next to her. Again.

 

 _A true warrior_ , Indra would say with a dash of irony, and roll her eyes at the menacing girl they call Skairipa, yet falls on her ass the minute you leave her alone. It’s very much like her though: never taking help from anyone, not even from inanimate objects.

 

“Can I do anything for you?”, the girl asks again.

 

“No, I’m good.” Octavia stands up, albeit with some difficulty due to her cramped muscles. The interrupted blood flow in her legs picks up its work once again and leaves crawling itchiness behind. Subtly, Octavia trades from one foot to the other and blinks at the narrow kitchen table. The electric kettle has long gone silent. Octavia sighs and flips the switch back on, picking some shrunken dried leaves from the small heap and throwing them into the dark green mug she had taken from the cupboard before she succumbed to exhaustion. The leaves are supposed to help against that. For the past few weeks, she’s been on a constant leaf trip.

 

“You’re the Commander”, the girl says, recognizing her now by Lexa’s symbol on her forehead, and her words are thickly laced with awe.

 

Octavia yawns. “Don’t call me that. I didn’t Ascend.”

 

“You won the Conclave and saved our lives.”

 

“Well, _technically_ , my brother did.”

 

“But you united us. You made peace when we were about to fight each other.”

 

Octavia sighs just in time with the water boiling and sending its kettle into a hectic dance of mechanic clatter. The constant flow of admirers, like this one, has turned into a trickle by now. She suspects the girl just missed the short phase when it was cool to hail Skairipa for their survival. These days, she’s getting a lot more backlash for various reasons. That feels much more like her usual comfort zone. Octavia doesn’t think of herself as a _leader_.

 

But Bell did. ( _Does_.) Just like Indra, and the girl that is still rooted to the doorstep, marveling at a young woman with loose braids and heavy bags under her eyes.

 

“Don’t you need anything from here?”

 

The girl obediently steps into the kitchen and looks around, apparently having forgotten whatever she was supposed to get. The jug in her hand suggests the obvious, and she makes her way to the water tap. A frowning Octavia glances at the digital clock set up right above their heads. It blinks a dismissive red 4:57 AM at them. At a time this early in the morning, it’s odd to see a child roaming around the halls already.

 

But hell, what does _she_ know about being a normal kid?

 

 “You’re not supposed to drink that much at once”, the girl says in an ever so slightly accusatory voice. Octavia’s eyes flit back to her and her very accusatory finger that points at her steaming mug. It’s dark with tea leaves bobbing up and down. “This plant grows around my village. It’s so strong it can keep you going for _days_ , and then you’ll drop down because you don’t feel you’re actually hungry and starve.”

 

“You’re Trishanakru, right?”, Octavia asks. The girl jerkily nods without taking her gaze off the mug. “You brought those with you along with the other herb supplies, that’s why you know so much about it.”

 

 _“Sha._ Trust me, Commander. I know everything about herbs.”

 

“I do. That’s why I’m drinking that.”

 

A look of utter confusion has taken over the girl’s small face. “What?”

 

Octavia cradles the mug and makes an attempt to smile at the girl on her way out. “If a Commander needs to do anything, it’s to keep going.”

 

 

 

As usual, the hallways are still void of life. Octavia has come to like these hours just before the 1,200 inhabitants of the Second Dawn Bunker get up – the world above is asleep under tons of ashes, but decades of multiple conflicts between every single one of them are not. The more time passes down here, the more pronounced they get, the more do they want to rip each other’s throats out and decorate the bunker with their enemies’ heads. And this time, Octavia actively tries to keep them from slaughtering each other.

 

(Again … not her usual comfort zone.)

 

The command headquarters are two levels below her current one. Just like always, Octavia avoids the elevators and takes the emergency stairs instead. At every turn, a hallway branches off to another set of sleeping quarters, common rooms, or bathrooms. The people who constructed the bunker did an impressive job, but still, it feels as if all the twelve clans just barely fit. They’re all breathing down each other’s necks.

 

The HQ is guarded by a drowsy looking Ark Guard and a Yujleda warrior who does her best to conceal her tiredness, but only succeeds at staring down a pole to death. Both of them come to life when Octavia enters their peripheral vision.

 

“Password”, the Ark Guard orders.

 

“I’ve been down here seven times in the past two days. Recognize my fucking face”, Octavia growls at him.

 

Indra sticks her head through the door, her already short-kept hair disheveled. “You’re already up”, she says, and it doesn’t sound very happy. Octavia salutes to her with her mug and shoves past the Guard without sparing him a second glance.

 

“Don’t worry, I got the rest you wanted.” Better no telling her mentor that she never actually reached her bunk bed. The kitchen floor doesn’t sound like the best of Skairipa’s choices. But Indra is already frowning at the mug, and then at her, and she looks like she’s absolutely done with half-truths.

 

“I want you out of here the second we’re done.  You won’t be of any help if you keep drugging yourself just to keep awake for yet another pointless discussion.”

 

Octavia snorts. “Well, don’t let the Council members hear that.”

 

“She already tells us on an hourly basis”, Kane’s deep voice cuts through the room. He sounds pretty amused, and as Octavia enters the room, she sees him lounging in his chair, with the hint of a smile on his lips. It’s not only his relaxed attitude that sets him apart from the other tired people who’ve assembled in the HQ. Kane looks as if he’s washed his face at least once during the last twenty-four hours, his greying beard has been trimmed recently, and the shadows under his eyes are not quite the bruising indigo color of a man who’s forgotten what his bed looks like. Octavia attributes that a) to his never-ending optimism for a better world, may it even take place in a vintage bunker hiding from deadly radiation, and b) to the battered up yet almost as healthy-looking doctor on his right side. They’re holding hands under the table. It’s not like Octavia is a complete idiot.

 

Marcus Kane is one of the twelve clan leaders who have formed a new council. His stance as the successor of Pike, as well as his doubled efforts to keep the alliance together, have earned him the place as Skaikru’s chancellor and spokesman. The other eleven clans have taken time to appoint their respective leaders, such as Indra for Trikru, and agreed to the idea of a council based on the old Arkian one; a concept they’ve had on their own once before, but not without kings, wars, or Hedas putting stress on the democratic system. Together, the twelve Council members discuss general bunker matters and requests from the clans, they handle disputes and cast their votes on new proposals. Each of them holds one vote. It’s perfectly democratic.

 

Well, not entirely. Since Floukru is dead, the equal number of Council members allows draws. To avoid political standstill, a handful of consultants are allowed into the room; their main task is to sway the debate in a way that a majority forms, and if that doesn’t work out, to cast their votes themselves. In order to avoid bias, the consultants are only allowed to speak in the interest of their bunker jobs, and silenced when they branch off topic. Abby is Skaikru, but most importantly, she’s the Head of the Medical Station. She built up the makeshift hospital from scratch with the help of her assistant Jackson and other clan healers who made it to safety. As the one doctor with the broadest medical knowledge, especially in a huge confined space that has conditions similar to those on The Ark, she speaks on behalf of the sick and addresses decisions that might affect their health. She’s usually one of the loudest.

 

A woman from Sankru is responsible for the water supplies, another Azgeda guy addresses anything that has to do with air conditioning, and Gaia kom Trikru reports on conflicts that have to do with religious conflicts, or organizes praying circles. All seven responsibilities are as evenly distributed as possible. All of them have their field of expertise, most working closely together with Ark people who know their way around the tech, but they make the ultimate decisions. Everyone has their place.

 

And then there’s Octavia. Most of them don’t really know what she’s there for.

 

And she’s not quite sure whether _she_ knows, either.

 

So she takes her usual place between Indra and Kane and nurses on her tea. Her choice of position may look a little biased, but hey, she _is_ biased. In nine cases out of ten, those two make the most sense. And it’s not like they’ve asked her opinion on anything so far. If Octavia could have her way, she’d just silently stare them all down for another fifty-nine consecutive months until they’re finally released from here. She feels that that might be one of her strengths – judging people.

 

The moment that Jaha barges in, it’s clear that Octavia won’t be so lucky today.

 

For the last month they’ve taken camp in the bunker, Jaha’s presence has become some sort of dreaded omen – like a black cat, as her mom would say. Everything goes fine/solvable until Jaha plots a plan how to drive out Grounders in order to save Skaikru, announces a new brawl on Level 4, or a power shortage in sleeping quarters 265-290. And then he usually leaves to feed off new gossip only to return to the HQ and prove that whoever had this idea of all surviving together first is an idiot.

 

Sometimes Octavia thinks that he’s just trying to create drama where there is none. Conflicts in a society confined to a metal box should be a Thursday to him, right?

 

She still might be a little bitter towards him, given her sixteen years of being an illegal child that led to the execution of her mother.

 

“I have news”, Jaha thunders. He doesn’t smile – that’s the first warning sign. Usually, Jaha maintains a sardonic smile at least.

 

“We have an agenda”, fires the Boudalankru leader back. “Be quick, and get out.”

 

“Who’s in charge of the lockup down on level 6?” Jaha searches the room with his always so intense eyes, until the young-ish Delphikru consultant raises a limp hand. He was an impressive warrior before the Conclave and particularly eager to exclude Azgeda. Now he’s the head of the guards’ system. “Was it your idea to stack them? I was just down there. You have up to ten offenders packed in one cell.”

 

“ _What_?”, Abby erupts and wrestles free from Kane’s hidden soothing hand.

 

“I didn’t have any choice!”, the Delphikru man defends himself. “We have limited living space. Maybe a dozen or so cells we can actually use for lockup. I was going to release them tomorrow morning, when they’ve got time to think over their crimes, and when we’ve worked a way for them to pay.”

 

“Ah. Crimes. What crimes are we talking about?” Jaha has strode deeper into the room – that’s the second warning sign. Whenever he looks as if he might stay a little longer, it’s bad.

 

“Well, stealing supplies, fighting with others--“

 

“Let’s not forget about murder, shall we”, Jaha interrupts him, and his tone has gone from urgent to icy.

 

Murmur rises. “What murder?”

 

“Twenty minutes ago, a twelve-year-old girl was attacked a few levels above. The man saw her leaving his hallway with supplies he assumed she’d stolen from him, they got into a fight, and he beat her to death with a food can. But I suppose he’ll be released soon.”

 

A short silence follows when they all let the information sink in, and then, all hell breaks loose.

 

A deafening flood of Trigedasleng splashes against the walls, accusing each other for neglecting obvious culture differences, not mediating conflicts, yelling just for the sake of yelling …

 

“Speak English!”, one of the Skaikru guards bellows. An elderly man makes a rude gesture towards him that probably means he should really brush up on his Trig skills.

 

“Enough!”, Indra yells. Most of the Council members stop fighting and turn around to face her. Indra has risen from her seat, her arms folded, and a wrinkle between her eyebrows gives away that she’s busy concocting a solution. “Jaha. What do you suggest we’re supposed to do?”

 

“We need rules”, Jaha shoots back.

 

“We already have rules.”

 

“Rules about how many blankets a person gets, when they’re allowed to wash themselves. Yes, we have some of those – we established them during the first days.” Jaha pauses and looks around the room, looking at everyone who’s helped making these decisions. “But we haven’t set up any justice system. We need to make sure that our people are safe. That they’ll make their journey up to the ground without having to fear for their lives. This bunker isn’t a place for murderers.”

 

“Like hell will I help you with making floating a thing again.” Everyone turns around to Octavia, one of the people who hasn’t said almost anything during their month as a shared Council. Disgust seeps through her words. She feels herself scowling at Jaha, her mouth turned downwards in the memory of what he did to her.

 

And it looks like Jaha is aware of that, too. His face softens just a bit when they make eye contact.

 

“I don’t want to either.” Jaha’s voice is so soft it almost doesn’t reach her ears. “But what’s the alternative? What are we supposed to do with murderers?”

 

“I say kill’em.” A clan leader slams their fist on the table. “We can deal with other criminals in a different way, but where I come from, someone who murders a child is either exiled or faces Death By A Thousand Cuts. We can’t exile them. We need to set an example so we can survive.”

 

“That’s open to discussion”, Kane hurries to interrupt, “but let’s agree on another set of rules before we can tackle any other problems that are currently going on. Jaha’s right this time, we need to at least discuss it.”

 

Octavia forces herself to stay throughout the whole meeting, even though her feet are screaming at her to run as far as she can. But it’s not like she can escape this decision by saddling up Helios and galloping into the sunset. Helios is dead by now. She’s on her own. And she’s up against eleven clan leaders who have never lived on The Ark.

 

And when the door finally opens that late morning, and her tea has gone cold, Octavia feels that all this Prometheus talk from Bellamy was worth nothing. Because what’s a Prometheus good for if he can’t protect what is dearest to him? What’s Prometheus supposed to do when they’ve chained him to a rock and he can only helplessly look into the eye of Death?

 

Because Octavia knows what that simple line means once it’s debated on and voted for. It means that this is only the start of a story that Octavia already knows the end to.

 

 

 

**PUNISHMENT OF CRIMINAL ACTS UNDER THE RULE OF THE SECOND DAWN BUNKER**

**\--- Killing an inhabitant of the Second Dawn Bunker is punishable by death. ---**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the chapter was a bit rushed towards the end, but it's really late/early over here, I want to tackle this cliffhanger the next time we're in Polis, and above all, I'm really tired.
> 
> The leaves that Octavia is using are inspired by the coca plant and its health effects. I figured that after the first apocalypse, why wouldn't they spread from some American guy's garden? It's not like there was anyone around there banning foreign substances from the States, everyone.
> 
> Yes, I've built in some references to Greek mythology. And don't you think for one second that I'll stop - I'll go full nerd on this. The Iliad, anyone? Uh-huh, thought so. I love canon references.
> 
> Anyway, it's Pride Month! Leave me some kudos if you're feeling like hearts, or comments if you want to talk!


	4. Fish Tank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, guys. Long story short: I wrote most of the chapter only to realize I wasn't happy with it at all, experienced a small crisis, had several writing meetings with a true friend and eternal comrade in arms, had a slightly bigger crisis after that, and finally rewrote the entire chapter, which really sucked. As a small apology, I've added a lot more detail than I planned and the second version turned out more than three times longer than it originally was HOLY SHIT  
> Unbeta'ed, as usual. And we'll leave this bunker this week because I'm so goddamn tired of this place that has literally cost me days.

**_fall_ **

****

**_in love_ **

****

**_with your solitude_ **

****

**_\-- rupi kaur_ **

 

*******

 

**DAY 143**

  

“There’s something wrong with the vent system”, Clarke muses over breakfast. “I just wish I knew what it is. Last week’s full system check didn’t show anything out of the ordinary, and this morning, every possible computer warning went off. I’ll have to take a closer look on it today and figure it out on my own, ‘cause Raven, what the hell are your smart gadgets trying to tell me?”

 

The radio stares back at her, black and unassuming as usual. Silent, as usual. After several days of rewiring cables and checking frequencies, she’s come to terms with the fact that this can only be a one-way conversation at most. Clarke has no way of knowing whether any of her messages comes through, or whether her friends have made it onto The Ark after all. Whenever that last thought threatens to break through the surface of her consciousness, she pushes it back underwater with all her might. If you want to try sane in a bunker all on your own, you need to censor your own thoughts. It’s not that hard to once you’ve been doing it for a few weeks, let alone months.

 

* * *

 

 

Since the first day of her survival, Clarke has abandoned all thoughts of ending her life. Her wounds started to heal, and she found food. That was enough to make a new plan; one that wouldn’t make her last five years down here, sure, but it was a start. She began to make up rules for herself, because making lists gave her something to do, and because she needed those rules to fight her alter ego. On the second day when her lesions started to scab over, she devoured almost a double ration of food. The realization was almost enough to make her throw up in sheer panic.

 

 

 

_1\. You’re allowed to go to the freezer twice a day_

The freezer was unexpected, really. Clarke found it on her first tour through the whole building – apart from the first floor, where the Lab was, and the living quarters on the second, a couple of stairs led her into a brightly lit basement. A generator hummed loudly, brimming with precious energy. Brightly colored pipes wormed their way through the ceiling. The giant water tank, conveniently painted in a soft blue, was placed on the other side of the basement.

 

Clarke knew that just like the generator, it was provided with an access to the ocean via a covered deep well that held off most of the fallout. Once every twenty-four hours, an elaborate filter system’s valve opened and let in hundreds of liters of water. A large quantity of that water directly powered the generator. Clarke absolutely needed to maintain that system now that the solar panels wouldn’t be of much use because outside, a storm was still raging and covering the panels with debris. Until the weather calmed down, Clarke wouldn’t be able to clean the panels herself, which meant the building’s electricity was entirely dependent on how well the valve worked.

 

The water tank itself contained a smaller amount of the daily water supply, but it fully filtered out the waste that was inevitably linked to coastal waters filled with driftwood and dead fish. A small rest amount of radiation was possible, but the system continued to work so well that Clarke had little to worry about. At least, it was better than having to go outside herself and gather water from a shallow, _very_ irradiated pit. All she had to do was to get her daily two liters with a canister and maybe throw in an iodine pill, just to be safe.

 

Shelves lined the walls, filled with useful tools, manuals, a tangle of spare cables, and many other things Becca might have needed when she was still working on the island. Clarke went through its contents and chose a thick book about bunker maintenance, which was overgrown by comments in Becca’s tiny, frenzied handwriting. It didn’t sound quite as exciting as the ancient earmarked thrillers Clarke had found in a drawer upstairs, but it was also evident that Clarke didn’t know anything about bunkers to begin with. Damn, why had she always zoned out when her dad explained his work during dinners? It seemed like karma that she was stuck down here now …

 

Her self-hatred was immediately forgotten when she spotted the large chest in a far corner. The freezer’s lights blinked friendly at her, and it was cool to the touch. Clarke looked down to the control panel. She assumed that it was originally just meant for scientific reasons, because it could operate on different cooling temperatures, which allowed to store objects at a temperature as low as minus seventy degrees. In one of its drawers, she even found a fancy container filled with an ominous liquid the color of electric blue, which she avoided as much as possible. A far more interesting discovery was the one of 352 small bags, narrowly labeled with instructions in multiple languages. She knew bags like these from The Ark; they contained rehydratable meals very similar to freshly cooked food, with only minor differences. It seemed like back when Raven had thought they’d leave her behind to die, she’d run back to the mansion and armed herself with as many rations as she could fit into the limited storage space. She even added a zipper bag containing some apples Murphy had left in the kitchen, to make the drawers look a little more colorful.

 

Once again, Raven Reyes had saved Clarke’s ass … this time without even knowing it.

 

You’re supposed to eat three such meals per day, but Clarke has calculated she just needs to eat twice a day to make it through while maintaining her weight and energy still within the healthy range. That makes for almost six months’ time in which she can figure out how to survive on the ground – in this regard, she’s blessed that she doesn’t have to share the bunker with seven other people. Any more food intake would shorten her lifespan, any less would result in starving. She allows herself to go down to the basement and open the freezer once her computers’ alarm goes off at 8AM, effectively waking her up, and once at 18PM, the latest when she ends her workday. The hunger was hard to manage during the first few days of her strict regimen, but her stomach has grown used to it by now.

 

She’d kill for some fresh vegetables by now though.

 

 

 

_2._ _Lose as little water as possible_

When you’re living in a bunker, you don’t waste anything – especially no water. Any day, the complex filter system could break down … and then what? Clarke isn’t going to take any chances, so she reuses her urine. It’s a simple method she’s learned in Earth Skills: you fill a basin with it, put an empty cup right into the mess, drape a funnel-shaped foil over the basin, and heat the whole thing on a stove. Clarke has unearthed a small portable electric stove from behind the freezer on which she heats all her meals. The water in the urine vaporizes, condenses on the foil, and trickles down into the cup. That’s how she crudely reclaims some of the water she needs in order to properly function. But of course, she’s a human being who sweats and breathes out a considerable amount of water anyway, so all she can do is to limit her daily water ration to the necessary (that means no baths or hot showers, those take up additional energy), not use the radiator no matter how cold it gets sometimes, and hope for the best. So far, it looks like she’ll do just fine until she runs out of food.

 

 

 

 

_3\. Occupy yourself_

 

It’s taken some time before she added this third point to her inner list of survival, because it didn’t seem that important to her at first. The most pressing problems all revolved around how to get more food than she had in the freezer, or how to discover any additional water resources in case the main channel broke down. But she couldn’t plant any food because she had no clean soil or seeds to begin with.

 

After a few weeks, Clarke made her first attempt to return to the surface. She left her suit with the smashed-in faceplate behind, using one of the spare suits instead. It was a bulky old thing and she couldn’t move in it as well, but she was already used to things not going her way. Apparently, the lesions had just been the tip of the irradiated iceberg; around the time when they faded to pink, her eyesight faded as well. It wasn’t dramatic, she could still see what she was doing – but her once so perfect eyesight, a precious gift on The Ark, was impaired. Along with it came a strange tickling feeling in her lungs, just like when a scar gets covered with shiny new tissue that is still sensitive to everything. It didn’t hurt, it just lingered there all day; and after a few weeks, it was gone too. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror sharpened again. She saw a narrow face with only one or two tiny scars where the lesions had been deeper, and strange blue eyes that didn’t look like her own.

 

It seemed like the radiation had done some damage to her body which she couldn’t determine without any medical tools. But Clarke could still move, and the clean break in her dominant left hand continued to heal as long as she kept refraining from rash movements. She carried an empty container with her right hand as she took a deep breath and opened the airlock, behind which the former world awaited her.

 

It looked strange. She _knew_ that it was supposed to be late spring by now, or early summer; the landscape itself was a tale of destruction. The shock wave had mown down all the trees on the island – she could look so far that she saw the ocean that separated her from the mainland. A twisted snake of broken metal marked the site where the satellite tower had collapsed. There was no greenery, no sunlight kissing her head. The dark clouds above her loomed and crackled with subdued electricity. Dust and ashes whirled up as she stepped forwards. Clarke’s eyes wandered over the wasteland and registered no sign of life. It was possible that rodents had hidden deep under the surface, but anything bigger than a bunny was probably dead by now. So were the people they’d shut out before Praimfaya hit. As selfish as it was, the thought made her feel terribly alone.

 

 _I’m Eve,_ Clarke thought. _For the next five years, I’m going to be the only person on Earth._

_And what if nobody survived? What if I’m really the only one who’s left after all?_

Clarke stubbornly shook her head to brush off any trace of depression and determinedly followed the path she’d planned before she’d left the bunker’s safety. She went around the airlock in a wide circle, checking on the well that supplied her with water, and robbing the satellite tower of what little useful tech was left after its crash. It was a bunch of cables and a battery, but what gives. Then she brushed fallen branches and debris off the solar panels for sunnier, better days to come. During the whole time she worked, no noise whatsoever captured her attention.

 

_The last soul left on Earth. What I’d give for being away from it right now._

After that, there was nothing left to do. It was a strange feeling – she was so used to being up and busy all day, trying to save the world. It reminded her of the time when she was fifteen and had just lived her life together with Wells, two outsiders studying the time away, and sometimes drinking moonshine in a long-forgotten closet. But it hadn’t been for long even back then, right? Shortly after that, she entered medical training and literally lived on the med station. Her dad had joked about the shadows under her eyes not suiting a baby face like hers. She’d snapped back that he wasn’t funny and thrown a dish towel at him. She regretted it now, even although she knew that he’d lived a happy life right until the end.

 

But busy, just like her mom. Just like herself. The memory of living life carelessly has become distant, but the more days she spends in the bunker, the more it resurfaces. Her past becomes part of the present in a way she wishes it never would.

 

Clarke usually lies already awake when her alarm beeps at 8AM. She throws off the dozen or so blankets that keep her warm at night, and pulls on her trusty sweatshirt although it doesn’t hold off much of the cold because the fabric is literally a hundred years old. She needs to swaddle herself like a baby because the radiator’s off limits. Thank the inhabitants before her, the people who carried out immoral experiments and tinkered with old computers. Those people left some clothes behind them when it became clear that they’d have to live with hundreds of other humans, and that you needed to travel lightly. It wasn’t much per person – one sweater here, a pair of socks there -, but it adds up. Clarke doesn’t need to freeze unless she wants to. (She’d rather not.)

 

Then she tapers down to the basement, gets her water ration and unearths her untraditional breakfast (yup, she’s already had some oversalted fish mush, but a hungry woman won’t complain), and talks to the radio on the table which serves as a diary somehow. Clarke voices problems she’s encountered and needs to fix today, counts her rations again, logs her health and all the other details crucial for survival that once were taken for granted, but now need to be shouldered by one person. Then she stands up, cleans her plate. Does some body hygiene and takes pains to brush her teeth, because inflamed gums are the last thing she wants to be responsible for. Stares into her reflection’s weird blue eyes. And then she crouches behind the generator between two spider webs, checks on the pipes, runs two full system checkups over and over until the everlasting staring at walls is interrupted by the 18AM alarm and she eats dinner and cleans her plate and washes her face and goes to bed.

 

It awaits Clarke in all its comfort on the upper floor of the Lab. She’s scrubbed small sprinkles of blood off the floor she can’t or _won’t_ explain to herself and hides under her blankets, tossing and turning and waiting for the dreams to come. She doesn’t know yet whether she wants them or fears them. Maybe both. Sometimes they’re simple short movies composed from memories – the sensation of sunlight on her face, the screeches of Delinquents cooling off in the river after a hot day. The sight of blood on her hands. The first Arkadian harvest. The glint of moonshine beside a logfire, its tall flames licking at the night-black sky. Three hundred men, women, and children collapsed in peace, together in a dining room. The cries of war. The voice of her mother, although its edges have become frayed by now.

 

They can be horrible, but they’re just memories. Clarke has laughed and suffered through all of them, knows their shape like the back of her hand. They’re etched into her like tattoos, and she may not bear them all with pride, but they’ve molded her into the kind of person she is now. Clarke is more terrified of the dreams that have nothing to do with the reality she knows – a rocket exploding in Praimfaya’s fiery sky; Bellamy’s slit throat and dead eyes staring back at her; the Second Dawn Bunker suddenly filled with rotten corpses like the bunker they’ve discovered on their trip with Jaha; a deadly yellow fog turning into people without eyes but gaping, screaming mouths instead, screaming after her as she tries to flee the prison of her imagination, and fails at the barricade of her own mind.

 

A tiny white astronaut suit freely tumbling through vast, bottomless space.

 

But at least, those dreams allow her to be with the people she loves. At one point, she has to get up and face the silent bunker for another fourteen bleak hours before she can return into her dream world; her days are marked by breakfast and dinner and absolutely nothing in between. The alarm goes off. Repeat.

 

When she can’t bear the daily routine anymore, Clarke begins to take care of her mind. She begins to talk over the radio, even if it doesn’t work completely. Her first messages go out to her friends in space. He tells them she believes in them, that she saw the dish being aligned right before the screen went black, that they haven’t come this far only to fail so close to the finish line. She tells Bellamy to forgive himself. She tells Echo to keep on fighting.

 

Then she tries to radio the Second Dawn Bunker, although she’s just met by a murmuring empty frequency. She tells Miller that they’re all going to see each other again, and help Kane to watch over all their people, to keep them calm. She tells Octavia that she needs to trust her friends if she wants to lead anyone, and that trusting Indra is the best shot she’ll ever get. She tells them that the last time she saw their friends, they were all alive and kicking. It seems like it’s still not enough, but she can’t will herself to lie to them anymore.

 

She finally tells her mom goodbye. It’s one of the few times she actually cries.

 

And when she’s run out of living people to talk to, Clarke starts to use the radio as a tool of absolution. She apologizes to everyone she ever had to kill or didn’t rescue in time. She spends a good deal with an imaginary Wells. She stops to say that she had no other choice, but starts to say that this was the only choice she was willing to go through with. The words go unheard, just like before. It makes her heart feel lighter nonetheless.

 

Clarke begins to listen to music while she’s tinkering with her tools in the Lab. The sound of Raven’s metal playlist wafting through the bunker puts her at ease. She learns to yell along. Sometimes she does a little dance when she’s feeling especially hyped. She slowly reads her way all through Becca’s books until she’s filled with their words to the brim of her soul. Whenever her voice starts to rasp because she doesn’t talk much anymore, she reads the books out to herself and records it. Listening to just her voice might seem a little weird, but it’s good for days when she doesn’t feel like white noise.

 

She begins to draw again. There are only a few sharpies in the bunker to draw diagrams with. Clarke makes them count. The first thing she does is to sketch out an upper body of a human onto the east wall, its skull and ribcage split wide open. She takes days to remember all the organs, bones, and nerve systems her textbooks have taught her, until a wrecked human being is stretching their fingers towards the night sky she’s drawn all over her ceiling while dangerously balancing on the stairs. The stars are a bit crooked, but mimic reality just fine. Every other day, she suits up and goes outside, just to look up to the sky. She usually takes a soil sample with her and analyzes it in the Lab. The radiation levels are still critical, but decreasing. She watches eagerly over the data. Her stay at the bunker slowly draws to an end, but Clarke still doesn’t know how to survive outside long-term, instead works on a method how to bring food sources inside and keep the bunker working for another 4.5 years. But the data isn’t just meant for her. They symbolize the countdown for the day her people can walk free again.

 

This is what Clarke has expected when she hurried back into the bunker: a loveless death all on her own, separated from everything dear to her.

 

This is what Clarke has found instead: a state of mind in which she finally values the time she’s still given, the first step towards peace with herself, forgiveness and patience for a day that she knows is going to come. She listens to her newfound heart and what it needs to make her feel content. Clarke has found peace all on her own, because in here, she can only face off against her demons and has won all fights so far.

 

On some days, she brews herself some disgusting instant coffee, puts on some hardcore, and feels close to happiness.

 

She’s doing okay.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**DAY 144**

 

At 4:22 AM, the ocean is a wild animal. It has been that way for a few days already; the inhabitant of the bunker on the island hasn’t dared to go outside since then, because she fears that she’ll get blown away by the storms that chase the waters offshore. The element claws at the coastline just like it has been doing it for the last few millions of years, molds it in a battle that the land is never going to win. It’s the first hurricane since Praimfaya, and although it only passes the Island of Light on its way to the northwest, its troughs whip up the sea until it’s more relentless than before. Rocks thunder down with mighty splashes that don’t reach the bunker just yet. As the rock gets teared away, it’s only a matter of time until the water has reached the well, just a few yards away. It is artificial and sturdy, made to last for decades; but its constructor has long since died, and the current bunker resident does her best to understand the system, but doesn’t have the tools to keep the necessary maintenance up. The old material gives way to a furious ocean – thousands of liters roll through the channel and its more delicate pipes, tear down valves and filters with their overwhelming pressure – and blast through the bunker’s water tank.

 

The basement flows over within minutes.

 

The day before, Clarke had dutifully repaired everything that her computers had advised her to check. The vent system is old, and sometimes, it needs to be cleaned of dead rodents. Clarke has to suit up, scrub the vents from rotting corpses, and throw them outside when she leaves through the airlock. This is usually everything the warnings are about – the air she breathes isn’t clean enough, or the rodents have blocked the air supply. And the counter-measures are relatively easy, especially for a short lightweight like Clarke.

 

What Clarke didn’t check was the segment of the vent system that is shared with the filter system. It’s too far to crawl on her own, the danger of suffocating seems quite real, so this is the only segment Clarke can’t repair without assistance to guide her. The valve at the end of the segment controls the water supply from the ocean. As the well collapsed, the valve would’ve been the only thing that bought Clarke some time, because the rising pressure would alarm the computers, Clarke would wake up and try to fight the problem. But the aged valve collapsed as well, and her time reserve evaporated.

 

Clarke wakes up because of a roaring thunder deep within the building and the shrill alarm of every goddamn computer on Earth. Despite the early hour, she’s wide awake within seconds. She stumbles down onto the first floor, where the flashing lights of the computer screens blind her for a moment; but then she realizes the problem too, and the steady thump of water against the basement door turns into a groan and the door slams wide open, flooding the first floor with a mass of seaweed and torn open food rations.

 

Clarke grabs her suit from the wall and steps into it, her hands shaking with adrenaline. The drill she’s come up with after a third week planned to grab as many food rations as she could, fill two large bottles with water and take some meds, and flee outside to the solar panels where she could set up a small generator and feed off the energy until she’s figured out a plan how to return to the bunker.

 

Well …

 

There’s only enough time to blindly, stupidly grab one freely floating food ration and sprint to the airlock. The floods sends the computers into shock, sparks of electricity go off. Clarke can only pass the airlock as the water devours the last five months of her life in solitude.

 

She collapses outside, the door beside still wide open. Why bother to close it? The fact that the flood has come this far means that the filter and vent systems are wrecked beyond repair. There’s no isolation whatsoever against the radiation anymore. Her few tools lost in the water. All the protection Clarke has right now is her suit and a steadily declining oxygen supply.

 

As time goes by, a broad stream of water clears the altitude and flows down the hill, back to where it came from. Clarke turns her meager food ration in her hands and watches the stars fade into a soft grey. The hurricane has passed. She can see the hint of a sunrise just looming on the horizon.

 

It’s so strange that she fought to live for so long only to die now, Clarke thinks to herself. It’s not that she regrets staying alive, not going through with her plan a few months ago right when all of this started. It’s just … strange.

 

She’s right there where she belongs. Beneath the stars. She can see so far right now, the ocean shines with innocent calmness. It’s beautiful.

 

When Clarke starts to get dizzy, she struggles a little with herself before she pulls off her helmet. It’s not that she’s scared of suffocating, quite the opposite, it’s better than burning alive. It’s the need for fresh air right now that tips her over; she hasn’t breathed real air for months now, and it would be a shame to waste her last chance on it.

 

Once again, and she’s become used to it now too, her heart defeats her head.

 

Her breath sends out silvery little puffs of air. It’s autumn. Up here, the nights grow colder each day. She hasn’t seen snow in a while now, and while she isn’t sure it’ll snow that soon after a worldwide fallout again, she’d be happy to see it.

 

Clarke thinks of her friends.

 

“Thank you for taking care of me”, she says loudly. The sound of her own voice has become familiar, an organ that keeps her mind alive. “I hope you guys are okay.”

 

“I’d say so”, says a rough voice that is not her own. “I’ve had better nights though. So have you, I bet.”

 

Clarke turns her head into the direction the voice has come from. “So I’m dead now?” That was supposed to come out as a statement, not a question. She must’ve passed out by now.

 

“You’re a tough girl, Clarke kom Skaikru”, a second voice weaves its way through her final dream. “You’ll always rise from the ashes.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're out of the bunker! But whose voices did Clarke hear right before I ended it with this mean cliffhanger? Please let me know your thoughts about this chapter in the comments below ;)
> 
> Scientifically speaking, I bullshitted my way all through the science-y passages, but there are a few facts I did research before I wrote this.
> 
> How to get radiation-free water: http://www.oism.org/nwss/s73p919.htm
> 
> In-depth explanation of space food: https://airandspace.si.edu/exhibitions/apollo-to-the-moon/online/astronaut-life/food-in-space.cfm
> 
> I don't know anymore where I got the urine filter method from, sorry

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos if you've made it to the end and actually liked it! They help me assess the quality of my writing, not just whether it sounded cool on your dash.
> 
> Here are some sources because I'm a good student.  
> Radiation Symptoms:  
> https://emergency.cdc.gov/radiation/emergencyfaq.asp#23  
> How to tell whether your cheekbone's broken:  
> http://facialtraumamd.com/cheek-fracture/  
> Physics of Nuclear Fallouts:  
> http://www.atomicarchive.com/Effects/effects2.shtml
> 
>  
> 
> My weirdest google search was "Do toilets work in atomic catastrophies?" Writing brings me joy.
> 
> visit me on tumblr, I'm flightyhead over there as well


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